"Five minutes out from target," the pilot announced, and Clint thumbed his earpiece, opening the line of communication to his team.
"Listen up," he barked. "You've all been briefed on what to expect once we hit the ground. Just to reiterate, our main goal is to identify and neutralize the mind behind the tech. Once that's been accomplished, then we burn the place to the ground. Leave no trace behind, got it?"
There was a chorus of agreement in his ear, and then Clint took a deep breath, mentally reviewing the info his moles had fed him over the past 16 months. Rumors of an arms dealer, dug in like a tick in a Cold War era bunker on the border of Romania and Bulgaria, and working with magic. They were producing something far too close to WW2 era Hydra weapons, and Clint was determined to find out what materials they were using.
If there was something similar to the Tesseract here on Earth, then they would shut down production, and Clint himself would ensure that the power source was secured.
He felt a tremor run down his spine as the helicopter banked right, leaving the Romanian border behind, before beginning to descend. If he had learned anything in the eleven years since New York, it was that anything concerning magic set him on edge. It was unpredictable, and caused way too many problems, as far as he was concerned.
Clint pulled himself together and pushed from his seat, in preparation to lead his small force through the doors. Even as he worked to ground himself, the short hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end; he had a bad feeling about this mission.
The Panther settled into a small clearing near a rocky ravine, somewhere in the middle of a swath of thick forest. Clint slid open the side door and hopped out into shin deep grass, speckled throughout with small wildflowers. The air was clean, the sky above a cheerful blue, and everything around him seemed in direct odds with what they were about to do.
But Clint pushed that thought away and instead waved his five man crew forward. He looked them over one at a time. Dane, who was local to the area, and had helped plan this entire mission, and piloted the helicopter. Thurman, the explosives expert that had calculated the amount of C4 they would need to bury the bunker. Burk and Harrington were rack buddies from way back, and worked together almost as smoothly as Clint and Natasha once did. And finally, Johnson, who was relatively green, but was a goddamn genius when it came to mechanics.
They took a moment readying their weapons, Clint taking extra time with his rifle, coaxing his muscle memory back to the forefront. He'd never been at his best with a gun, but the cramped corridors of a seventy year old bunker wasn't the right setting for a bow, so he'd work with what he had.
Ammo checked and comms tested, Clint gave a short whistle, calling all attention to him.
"Get ready to move out," he announced. "We're half a click from the breach-point."
With that, he turned and headed toward the treeline, his team forming up at his back. Within moments they had disappeared into the dappled sunlight beneath the canopy, leaving the helicopter behind as the only sign of their passing.
A short hike later, and Clint checked the GPS coordinates, giving a grim smile at the flashing icon announcing that they had arrived at their destination. It looked like any other stretch of forest. Tall stately trees with wide branches blocked the sky, keeping the underbrush to a minimum over the rugged landscape. Piles of deadfall collected against the random rocky outcroppings, and it was one of these that Clint approached, his eyes appraising what was meant to deceive.
"It's right here," he muttered and began to pull the larger branches away from the base of the boulders.
Within moments, Clint had exposed a flat, cement pad behind the rocks, and set in the center was a large, square metal vent cover. It was precisely where the crumbling blueprints they'd discovered in an abandoned military facility had said it would be. If the rest of the information was correct, then this vent would lead them into the bunker's interior, and moving through the ductwork would provide them with the element of surprise.
"No one ever thinks to look up," Clint grinned before pulling out a multitool and setting to work loosening the vent cover.
Recon had been limited, as the ductwork vents had been positioned on the sides, rather than the bottom. What little Clint had seen corresponded with an active production facility of some sort, but beyond the tops of machines, and a few skewed angles of various workspaces, he couldn't get much of a read.
Crawling slowly ahead, the six men followed the ducts until Clint reached a T junction.
"Got an out, here," he called back softly as he hooked his fingers through the metal mesh of the large vent that made up the far wall of the tunnel.
After a bit of careful maneuvering, the screen was set aside and one by one, the team emerged into a dusty storage room. Clint stretched the tension from his neck, then flashed a quick hand signal, alerting the other men that it was go time. They stacked up behind him as he slowly eased open the door to the room, ready for whatever came next.
What they hadn't been ready for was the complete lack of staff.
Room after room was breached and cleared, with nary a soul in sight, and after each empty space was secured, Clint felt his unease grow. An operation like this should have had dozens of people, all tasked with a specific job. And yet, they hadn't discovered a single one.
Clint was starting to worry that their intel was faulty, maybe out of date. Hell, maybe somebody was a turncoat and tipped off the target. They could be long gone, along with all of their magical weaponry, and Clint would have to start the hunt anew.
Biting back a growl, the archer checked the digital version of the bunker blueprints, noting they were approaching a large, open area. He stepped quickly, rifle snugged to his shoulder as he followed the curve of the corridor, eager to see what lay ahead. He heard the low beeping of machines, smelled the antiseptic, and immediately thought 'infirmary', but nothing prepared him for what they actually saw upon entrance to the room.
The lights were low, which dampened the horror momentarily. Clint's eyes skipped from station to station, taking in the sight of six people dressed in loose linen clothing. They were restrained in semi-upright positions, limbs harnessed to a crude metal frame that surrounded their bodies. Four tubes ran from each person, positioned at their outside thigh and collarbones, and they glowed a bright and flickering gold.
"What the fuck," Johnson whispered. He was the newest addition to the team, and therefore hadn't seen even a sixteenth of the weird stuff Clint had.
"Focus," Clint replied, his gaze darting from the golden lights to the machinery that decorated the edges of the frames. There seemed to be a collection vat attached to each station, and with a sinking feeling, the archer realized that he was looking at the power sources for this new weaponry.
Just then, a door opened on the far side of the room, and a harriedl woman in a white coat entered. She pulled up short at the sight of six unfamiliar men suddenly pointing rifles at her, the papers she'd been carrying spilling to the floor as she jerked her hands in the air.
Dane barked an order at her in Romanian, and she quickly replied in a pleading tone. Dane shot a look Clint's way, and he nodded in return. Dane's response was softer, and the woman began to hesitantly cross the room toward them.
After a quick Q&A, Dane reported that there were four other people in the facility, not counting the patients. The woman, Elena, also explained that she was in charge of caring for the patients themselves.
Clint instructed Dane to continue questioning Elena, and quickly sent the other four men ahead to round up the rest of the staff. It took several minutes to determine that yes, she knew how to hook people up to the machines, and how to maintain them once they were under. But other than that, she claimed ignorance as to what they were harvesting, or how it was used.
Clint wasn't quite sure he believed her, but he'd let this play out, and see where it went.
Elena continued on, Dane translating in real time for Clint's benefit. She detailed how the drugs they used to keep the donors under needed to be carefully calculated, and that the collection vats were delivered to Doctor Abney himself for conversion.
Clint had heard enough. It was clear that the mind behind this all had compartmentalized the process. Elena was just a simple cog in the machine, unsure of what events her involvement had set in motion.
"Start unhooking them," he growled. "I don't care what you do or don't know…but you know enough to realize this is wrong."
The look Elena shot at him told Clint she understood English far better than she was letting on, but she moved toward the nearest frame, and began to explain the process. Dane continued to translate, and Clint did his best not to lose his lunch; he'd never liked needles under the best of circumstances, and these were definitely not the best of circumstances.
Clint directed Dane in a few more questions, and as the other trickled back in, dragging along the rest of the facilities staff, Clint stalked off in search of the main lab.
A few twists and turns later, and the archer found himself standing in front of a set of double doors. They had round windows set high in each, reminding Clint of an old fashioned operating room. He cautiously peeked in, seeing a well stocked laboratory, and one, lone, little man, flipping through the pages of a journal.
Sweeping into the room, Clint pointed the rifle at the man's back and announced, "Hands up, slowly, or I shoot."
The scientist froze at the unfamiliar voice, just as much as the message it conveyed. He raised his hands slowly and turned to face Clint, surprise etched on his face.
"W-who are you," the man questioned, his eyes large behind oversized glasses. "How did you get in here?!"
"Consider me a concerned citizen," Clint answered. "There's been some talk about this place, so I figured we should check it out."
When no reply was forthcoming, Clint asked, "What exactly are you working on here?"
At that, the strange little man began to grin before he launched into a technical explanation that Clint could just about understand.
"Dumb it down for me, Doc. Why're you using people like living Capri Suns?"
"It's the only way to extract the magic," the scientist explained, his hands dropping to twist excitedly. "Without the magic, then the weapons are just…weapons. But with the magical source, we can turn it back against magic users! It will keep people safe!"
"Seems kinda weird to try and protect people by chaining some of 'em up and using them against their will."
A laugh bubbled from the man's throat, and Clint began to wonder if he was all there, or not.
"You don't know," the scientist suddenly snapped. "You don't understand! A magical threat requires a magical response! I knew that day, in Sokovia, that we had no chance against that sort of power. We were unprepared! But no more!"
Clint kept a careful eye on the other man as he began to pace as he ranted.
"I knew I had to do something. I had to figure out a way to fight back. And it was during my search for anything that could help us, that I discovered patient zero. He was the key."
"How do you mean," Clint asked carefully, trying to keep the man talking.
"I had developed the ability to detect magic, through mechanical means. It was while attempting to secure funding for my invention, that I met a collector of exceedingly rare objects. He had been told that the latest addition to his collection was a being of immense magical power, and asked that I use my machine to confirm this. The results came back off of the scale, but since I was the only one that could decipher the readings, I lied. I told the collector that his newest addition was worthless, but I had something that I was willing to trade…"
The scientist paused, before turning a feverish look Clint's way.
"Do you want to see him," he asked suddenly. "He's been in stasis since 2016, but he's still magnificent."
And with that, the man turned and hurried to a closed door at the back of the room and threw it open, before darting through.
"Hey," Clint shouted, as he bolted after the doctor, but skidded to a halt just inside the adjacent room.
Suddenly he was trembling, frozen, uncertain. What lay beyond the door was a punch to the gut, in the worst way possible.
The scientist stood in front of yet another frame, this one containing a familiar figure. One Clint hadn't seen since that long ago day in Central Park. But even after more than a decade, Clint would have known that face anywhere.
Loki.
Clint felt the tremors work outward, his hands clutching the stock of the rifle, desperately trying to hold the barrel steady as the scientist babbled on.
"It's the most fascinating thing," the wiry, little man exclaimed, his nervous hands fluttering. "I discovered, quite accidentally, that some people have a literal vein of magic in them! It acts as a secondary circulatory system, undetectable by any human means. But I discovered it! I learned how to access it, to mold it and manipulate it into a weapon against their own kind!"
The archer's head was spinning. Too much input, and his neurons were short circuiting, screaming at him that this was all beyond him.
Jerking the rifle barrel up, he firmed his mouth, before asking, "So then you're the one behind all of this?"
The smaller man shone a half crazed grin Clint's way, his hands spreading wide at his sides.
"Jonathan Abney," he offered. "And this is my life's work, jealously guarded, I might add." His gaze slid from Clint's to roam over the machinery surrounding the empty Loki's frame at his side. "It's a miracle made real! The only way to detect and utilize the magic!"
Clint swallowed, his throat tight as he tried to ignore the sight of Loki suspended behind Abney. The god hung limp and pale, no movement beyond the slight rise and fall of his chest, and Clint was beginning to fear that he was too far gone.
But that was a problem for Future Clint. Right now he just needed to confirm one last thing.
"Didn't answer my question, Doc. Is this it? The only facility, or is this little weapons factory a franchise?"
A confused look crossed Abney's face before he said, "Of course this is the only facility! Did you think me stupid enough to trust anyone else with this knowledge?! It's too valu-"
The bark of the rifle in the enclosed space was deafening, and Clint grimaced at the way Abney's body crumpled to the floor. He thumbed his earpiece on just long enough to state, "Target neutralized. Get the tech to finish disconnecting everyone in the main chamber, while I take care of the lab. Set the charges, but don't arm them…it's gonna take two trips to get everyone back."
At that, he allowed himself a moment to stagger-step to the nearest flat surface, bracing his hands on the desk as his rifle swung free on the strap. Clint took several deep, steadying breaths before he squared his shoulders and turned to face a long held nightmare.
Loki.
New York had been ages ago, and Clint had dealt with all that, thank you very much. Sure, there was still the odd dream, or flashback. But he was ok, dammit.
At least that's what he kept telling everyone who asked…until they stopped asking.
And now, here, impossibly, their paths had crossed again.
Clint stepped closer to the Frame and examined the network of tubes and wires that sprouted from the restraints themselves. He recognized the central line that was feeding sedatives into the god, and made a mental note to disconnect that last.
He tried to look at the parts before him, rather than the whole, because goddamn if Loki didn't paint a miserable picture. His once lean frame had withered, hip bones jutting and jawline sharp enough to cut steel.
And there was a part deep inside Clint that felt a kindred horror with his once captor. If anyone knew what it was like to be taken and used against your will, it was Clint. But his stint in captivity had lasted a few days, while Loki had been like this for years, if Abney was to be believed.
Scrubbing one hand over his mouth, the archer stepped closer and reached out to gently grasp the large bore needle at the outside of the god's thigh. The skin around the puncture site was slightly bruised, the only splash of color on this particular stretch of the god's pale hide. Clint took a deep breath through his nose and began to withdraw the needle.
He felt ill as the needle just kept growing, inch after inch, until it was more of a lance than anything else. The tip finally cleared the skin, bringing with it a lazy trickle of blood and Clint winced. One down, three to go.
The other thigh had gone as easily as the first, but when he moved on to the crook of Loki's collarbone, the god had let out a low shuddering breath, with just the barest hit of voice mixed in.
"...get..it out..of me…"
Clint flinched back, momentarily. There was no way Loki should even be close to awake, not with the amount of narcotics being dumped directly into a central line. The idea that he'd been somewhat conscious for the entirety of this torture was enough to turn Clint's stomach.
Again, Loki managed to speak.
"Please…it burns."
Clint ground his teeth as he grasped the needle and slid it out, slowly and carefully, before repeating the motion on the other side. He noted how Loki seemed to sag into his harness, the relief of no longer being connected to the Frame palpable.
The god mouthed a silent thank you to the archer, before losing consciousness again.
"Oh hey, c'mon now," Clint pleaded. "Don't make me have to carry your ass out of here!"
He sighed at the lack of response from Loki, and then set about the task of undoing the various restraints that had been holding the god in place. He worked from the feet up, letting Loki's weight sag into him until he held the taller man entirely.
"Well fuck, gonna have to do this the embarrassing way, I guess," Clint groused as he swept Loki into a bridal carry, deciding last minute to keep the cocktail attached to the central line. Wouldn't do to make him go cold turkey off whatever they'd been pumping into his veins for all these years.
Juggling the IV bag, Clint gathered up Loki, absently noticing exactly how little he weighed, and how utterly small he seemed in his arms. He frowned down into the face of the god he once served, and wondered what would come next for him.
Again, that was a problem for Future Clint…and Future Loki, as well. But for the moment, he had a job to do, and he couldn't let himself get distracted; so he stuffed down everything messy and focused on the task at hand. Five staff that needed to be evaluated, seven patients that would need extensive medical care, and his own team all needed to be ferried back to the boat before they blew this place to hell.
Time to get to work.